Page 52 of Royal Darling
His whole body relaxes. “Right. Great.”
I toss it in the rubbish bin and wash my hands. “I guess that’s that.”
He spears a hand through his hair. “I’m so relieved. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“We should celebrate.”
“Sure, maybe later. I’m going to finish getting dressed.”
“You want to play my guitar?”
I brush past him. “I think I’m going to take a walk. Clear my head.”
“Oh-kay.”
I stop and turn back to him. “Would you have stuck around if it was positive?”
“But it wasn’t positive.”
“So no.”
His face distorts into an expression that says it all—repulsion at the idea. “I don’t know.”
“Ah.”
He holds up his palms. “It’s a lot, Emma. And you have to admit, your life would be very different tied to mine.”
I can feel myself shutting down, my defenses going back up, the walls of proper Emma protecting me. “Yes, well, I suppose it’s a moot point.”
I finish getting dressed and then, head held high, take my jacket and go for a walk, my guards trailing behind me.
Jackson
Emma is upset. It’s been two days of silence on the Emma front. I don’t know if it’s because she’s disappointed not to be pregnant or because she’s disappointed in me. All I know is that she stopped singing, stopped playing guitar, even stopped humming. She told me that she always has a song in her head, but I think it went quiet in there. Itkillsme. I know what it’s like to lose the music, and I fear she’s lost what she only just discovered.
I’ve been playing more guitar, trying to coax her back, but all she wants to do is read and take long walks alone, though the guards follow her everywhere. I can see how easy it would be for her to fall for a guard; they’re her constant companions, more than anyone else. She’s been going to bed early, getting up early, not interested in sex. She even stopped cozying up to me in the early morning. I’m losing her. Any moment she’ll hop on the jet and fly home, never to be seen again.
On Monday I do the only thing I can think of, I go for a motorcycle ride in search of a gift. I do care about her, even if I don’t want to be tied down.
I return in the afternoon to find her watching another Italian soap opera on the telly. “Hey, Emma, I’m back.”
She doesn’t turn from the screen. “Hello.” Her tone is flat.
I grab the gift I left in the hall and return, holding it out to her. “I got you something. A surprise.”
She looks up and does a double take. I hand her the case with a big red bow on it. It’s the first week of December and they had gift wrapping at the shop.
She slowly stands and closes the distance, her eyes glued to it. I hand it to her and she sets it on the floor, carefully opening the case to reveal a Gibson acoustic guitar in a light rosewood. It’s a thing of beauty I would’ve loved to have when I was starting out.
She stares at it for long moments. I think I shocked her with the gift. Finally she reaches out with one finger, lightly stroking the glossy wood.
“Give it a try,” I urge.
She gingerly carries it with her to the sofa and strums a few notes.
I follow her. “It’s a Songwriter Deluxe made for musicians who compose their own songs. The tonal quality is excellent.”
